


Fever

by not_carrying_on



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Protective Dean Winchester, Scent Kink, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, The underage sex is in the form of explicit dreams fantasies and masturbation, Top Dean, Trust Kink, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_carrying_on/pseuds/not_carrying_on
Summary: Sam's life takes a wild turn when his mind starts haunting him with dreams that reveal a twisted, pent-up desire. How do you get over being in love with your own brother? You hide it and bury it until fate opens your personal box of Pandora.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing anything for the SPN fandom but damn, that finale made my mind create its own universe to cope. The story will consist of 3 or 4 chapters, haven't decided yet. We'll see where the ship sails. 
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes, I don't have a beta and wrote the first chapter in two days. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

At the age of thirteen Sam finally grasps what people mean when they say they can't pinpoint the exact moment something important started. One day you just wake up, the realization hits you and you're struck as if by lightning, the groundbreaking fact altering your axis forever. Yet the world, stays the same. It's only you who has their entire being torn out of your gaping ribs until your insides are at your feet - blood and organs all spilled out.

Sam's moment comes after a vivid dream that has him wake up to the most powerful orgasm he's had yet, soon to be substituted by deeply rooted disgust stemming from his soul. He can still feel the calloused fingers inside him, a hot palm skimming over his side in a possessive manner, while a cherry red mouth presses biting kisses that leave the flesh of his throat raw and sensitive, both from teeth and stubble. In the dream green eyes stare down at him, almost obsidian with how blown the pupils were. Those same eyes are closed in reality, their owner asleep in the bed a few feet away. 

Sam fights to keep his inhales under control, not give panic the opportunity to take over and wake up Dean with his rattling breaths. Because right now he can't stomach the idea of looking his brother in the face, not after dreaming of him fucking Sam open with his fingers while whispering filthy promises that he'll fill him up with something bigger, thicker--

_A wicked smile, white teeth gleaming, carmine lips press to his ear, fiery tongue licks at the lobe before murmuring,_

_"And you're burnin' for it, ain't'cha, Sammy? You want me to split you open on my dick, right, baby boy? Want me to pump you full with my come, 'till you're stuffed and I've marked you up so good that everybody knows who you belong to."_

_A bite below his ear, a third finger enters him, joins the other two to curl deep into his heat. The knuckles grind against his rim, the metal of the ring adds even more delicious friction against it._

_'Mine.'_

Despite the revulsion (what the fuck is wrong with him, why would he think of Dean that way, of his big brother doing that, why did he _enjoy_ it--), a strong throb of want spikes his blood, coils tight in his lower abdomen. He clasps his thighs together, pushes his mouth into a thin line.

Sam turns towards the wall, away from Dean. If Dad wasn't in the house he would have gone to sleep on the couch. Doing so now would not only wake their father, but also guarantee he'll be questioned in the morning. That or Dad will stall letting him come on a hunt even longer. He keeps finding reasons that 'prove' Sam isn't ready yet and Dean being the overprotective brother he is, agrees with him every single time. When he’s cursed to be in this world of monsters, Sam at least wants to see what it’s all about. What’s the point if he’s stuck on the sidelines?

He thinks about nothing and everything for the rest of the night, only gets up when he catches Dad shuffling about around quarter to six. Dean stirs the moment Sam gets to changing into his sweatpants and sweatshirt.

“Sammy?” he mutters, rubs at his eyes to ward off the remnants of slumber from them.

Sam pays him no attention, dead set on getting away from him as soon as possible. He swings the door open just as Dad is about to push it, his hand poised to clasp the handle from the outside. He can't hide his surprise, thick eyebrows jumping upwards at the sight of his youngest son up and ready for the mandatory morning run. The same run they both know he despises with a hissing passion ever since Dad implemented it into their morning routine.

Sam shrugs, “I gotta go to school early.” and that seems good enough for Dad, even if the wonder doesn't retract from his expression.

Sam goes to take a piss, wash his face and brush his teeth, leaves to the sound of Dean's protests, soon followed by ‘gimmie five and I'm ready’. Sam doesn't wait. He's startlingly calm, a heavy icicle sits lodged between his lungs. He doesn't even slam the front door shut. He can't indicate anything is amiss, will blame the cold shoulder on drowsiness and stress from the upcoming history test, then he'll laugh at Dean's stupid jokes and it'll be fine.

Now he focuses his emotions into the run, moves like he's got a monster chasing him. Only, he muses, it seems that now he has a monster inside of him too. He's so immersed in his head that he doesn't notice he's running an extra lap until he's halfway through it. Not only that - he'd been so fast that Dean isn't even back yet.

Dad seems to be under the influence of confusion still, nods at a full coffee cup on the other side of the table. He's never done that before. Sam says his awkward thanks, downs the contents in four mouthfuls before rinsing the cup and putting it back on the drying rack. He stacks this little event in his mind to analyze later, when he doesn't have the looming incest dream he got off to plaguing him.

He's certain he has maybe ten more minutes before Dean gets back, enough for Sam to take a fast shower, pull on his clothes for school and dash away. Dad doesn't question him, only observes. Sam isn't even unnerved by it, waves a bye and hurries outta the small house like they're an ordinary family. 

Just in time to catch Dean. 

He's drenched, the sweat accentuating his pecs and abdominals. Sam stops his eyes from going lower. His heaving plunges Sam back into the dream, has a shiver zip down his spine. 

"Sam?" Dean has gotten closer, cautious, a hand out like Sam's some scared puppy. Because he's his little brother. But he doesn't know what said little brother just dreamed about, doesn't know how much his little brother _liked_ it, still got hot and bothered by it despite how obviously wrong it is.

The thought alone does a miracle at mobilising Sam into action. "See ya later." he gives, evades Dean's hand once by curving past him, twice when he steps sharply to the left so that Dean can't catch him in a last attempt to stop Sam.

"Sam!" Dean's pissed now, his voice authoritive, always hates it when Sam keeps shit from him through blatantly ignoring him. "You get your ass back here or you're gonna walk back home, too, ya hear me!"

Sam strolls on, pace quick, kept under control so as to not rouse suspicion. He knows Dad watched the ordeal from behind the thin curtain. The slam of the front door alerts him that Dean gave up.

Good.

***

He's one of the first kids at school, but in the security guard's eyes he's a short kid that wants to get away from home and he lets him in. Sam thanks him, with the first genuine smile for the day, and sits down to do more reading. 

After school he does the same, stays until late in the library, to do his homework and read. Dean is true to his word and he's stuck going home by foot. It leaves him tired, sleepy, unable to even muster energy to get pissed off when Dean glares at him as soon as Sam steps into the house.

Dad's gone. Well, they came to Iowa for a hunt after all, it was a matter of time.

"You mind sharin' with the class what that stunt was? Huh?" Dean's clutching a half-empty bottle of beer, gets up from the couch as he takes a long swig.

Sam shrugs. Jesus, why is Dean so big? A well muscled wall from all the training, grave digging and whatever work he does during the day. Sam dreads summer when he'll start flaunting his corded arms while sweat drips down his sun kissed skin. 

He's looking down at Sam with an expression identical to the one Dad didn't lose all morning. 

The anger barely lingers now, replaced by the startled awareness that something's not right with Sam. Does he feel how dirty his little brother is? Can he smell the stench of it? Or is it visible, seeping like puss out of him? 

"Sam, you okay?" it's only concern, no pent up fury left. Just big brother instinct. He doesn't deserve a freak like Sam as a sibling, really. 

Sam nods, sidesteps him in the same manner he did that morning and heads for the shower. Dean follows him to the room, however the look Sam shoots over his shoulder makes him stop.

_Stay away from me. I don't wanna taint you, Dean. Please, just stay away._

He closes the door to get his change of clothes and underwear, hears Dean's retreating steps - he's gone to the living room. Sam can't help but strip in front of the mirror when he knows he won't be interrupted. There's no other word to describe him but skinny. Maybe even bony, although he's started filling up this year. There's a small amount of muscle on him from Dad's training. 

But he can't see it, the filth his mind conjured. He feels it like a tacky substance over his skin, a sour taste in his mouth that has his insides squirm, as if all the water he drank today turned into tar the moment it slid down his throat. Because he couldn't stop thinking about it all day, about everything - fingers, rough palms, sharp smile, pearly teeth, wet tongue, deep and raspy voice. It was on replay behind his eyes. 

That’s how he knows it’s just the beginning. 

xxx

From that day on it happens every night, sometimes they’re consecutive dreams of filth. The two weeks Dad’s away hunting Sam establishes new boundaries between himself and Dean. 

Some nights he’ll accidentally wake him up, not quick enough, giving Dean ample time to get out of his own bed and check up on him. He’ll automatically hunch, shoulders up to his burning ears and Dean will falter, hurt by the sudden wall of iron Sam has isolated himself with. Then Sam will go lie on the couch, stare at the coffee table and watch the colors of the old, battered wood change as the first rays of the sun emerge from between the trees of the surrounding forest. With the living room area facing east, he's bathed in light, lets himself believe for a split second that the light will wash away everything wrong with him.

During the weekend Dean will find him like that, will stop at the edge of the corridor and look at him, most likely pondering how likely it is that Sam will tell him to leave him alone (very high of a possibility). Sam will start developing his new form of exercise of not looking at Dean when he’s right there, with his back to Sam and getting ready for the day, when it's easy to get away with it. At one point, he’ll get up, go to the bathroom and get ready for a run. 

Despite having joined track he still runs in the mornings. Dean stopped trying to convince him it’ll be more fun if they do it together, instead Sam plays deaf to the defeated sighs that sound when he’s steps away from the door, before even having a coffee or some eggs. If it’s a weekday, he’ll be just in time to take a few quick bites before Dean gets back and makes himself scarce before he can see his brother all sweaty.

Every day is worse than the previous. Sam keeps hoping this disease will pass, will leave him the fuck alone and stop residing rent-free in his mind. No such luck. He supposes the burning anger is what keeps him from seeing the signs early on - Dean wasn’t stepping back to give him space, no, he was just biding his time and waiting for the right moment to corner Sam. Which turns out to be after his last test for the semester. 

It’s a Friday, he gets back to the house way after dark, sore from practise and writing that stupid literature essay. Dean is standing tall on the porch with his arms folded in front of his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. One hand is in his thick leather jacket, the other brings a beer bottle to his mouth. Their eyes meet, even at this distance. He’s waiting for him.

Sam stops a few paces from the Impala, heart hopping up right behind his vocal strings like a startled rabbit. He’d counted on Dean going out to the local bar with his fake ID for a game of pool to woo some girl, he’d skipped it last week. 

"Don’t you dare." Dean growls out. The night is so silent that it carries with perfect clarity. 

In that moment it sounds akin to a command from Dad. But also like that dream three days ago where he held him pinned by the wrists, his body keeping Sam still on the mattress, when he told Sam to stay. The pleasure that followed after, God, so overwhelming and tremor inducing. 

If Sam sprints away Dean will leap after him, chase him down and drag him back no matter how many punches and kicks Sam lands on him. He’s deadass serious. 

Sam compromises, sits on the Impala’s trunk with his bag in his lap, putting himself with his back to Dean. He’s not having this conversation cooped up in a closed space he knows smells like that particular blend of cologne, leather, metal and beneath it all what is undoubtedly _Dean_. If it has to happen he wants it to be in a place he’ll feel less suffocated in. 

Heavy steps make the frozen ground crunch. Dean sits on the opposite end of the trunk, careful to not kick Baby with the boots, respecting Sam’s current no touching rule despite being hyper done with his bullshit. What Sam hadn’t predicted is how bad Dean’s taking it - he sees the pack of Marlboro reds in his peripheral vision. Dean taps one out, snags it out by closing his lips around the filter and that's when Sam looks away. The click of the zippo follows soon after.

They both have their stress tells. Sam eats less simply because he feels like his stomach has shrunk ten times; Dean drinks and smokes. Interestingly enough, it’s the amount of cigarettes that ups in quantity rather than the alcohol consumption. It’s always three beers and a pack a night, always when dad’s not with them, always smokes outside on the porch because, ‘I ain’t gonna ruin your lungs too, bitch’.

He doesn’t do it often, though. It happens maybe twice or thrice a year. Their training regimen simply does not allow him to have weak, smoker’s lungs. 

Dean exhales a heavy cloud of smoke, away from Sam, before he starts, "Talk to me, man. I can’t help if you don’t tell me shit." 

Tell him what? That he’s been having wet dreams about his older brother that feel too real, as if visions, that leave lingering sensations from Dean each and every night? Or better yet, that he likes all of it, craves it, wants Dean to inflict it on him in real life. Chances are, if Dean offers Sam will readily spread his legs, will forgo most of the prep so all his focus can be on Dean splitting him open. Yeah, as if. Sam’s selfish, he doesn’t want Dean to hate him, even if he deserves any and all revulsion Dean will feel towards him if he finds out. He’s tried to imagine his face of nausea upon realizing what an abomination he has for a little brother and it-- he _can’t_.

"Sammy." he notices the hand too late, almost falling off the car at how bad he startles when it connects with his shoulder. 

Sam pulls his school bag to his front, presses his teeth into his lower lip upon catching how Dean’s hand starts shaking before it falls away. A deep inhale from the cigarette, followed by an exhale a few seconds later. It continues until Dean’s done and flicks the butt away. If Sam is in his right mind he’d chew him out for polluting, make him find that filter and throw it in the trashcan back at the kitchen.

"Who hurt you?"

Sam doesn’t mean to face him, body acting before his brain can give the proper commands. "Huh?"

"Who," Dean’s eyes are dark as he repeats in a low, falsely calm voice. "hurt you?" 

That’s the same expression he wears when he’s about to level somebody to the ground. Sam looks away.

"Nobody, Dean. Just--"

"Leave it alone? Like I did the past two weeks? Yeah, not happenin’, Sammy. I gave you your space when you asked me to. Time’s up." Dean gets to his feet, stands between his legs in a fluid step before Sam can try and do the same. "Who’s the son of a bitch I gotta rip the lungs outta?"

His hands are in his pockets. Sam’s doesn’t need to see them to know they’re clenched into tight fists. Sam draws back, glad that the backpack is between them in case Dean gets closer. His palms get clammy, toes twitching in his sneakers. He wants to touch, wants Dean to lean in, kiss him, fuck him on the back of the Impala, cold be damned.

"Nobody."

"Was it-- was it a some _thing_?"

"What? No! That’s what I’m telling you, nobody and nothing has hurt me."

"Oh, so it’s normal that my little brother suddenly can’t stand to be touched or, or talked to? And it’s totally normal for him to also act like he’s runnin’ away from a fuckin’ werewolf on his trail. Yeah, nothin’ wrong with that shit, at all." Dean traps Sam further by leaning in, placing his hands on the sleek surface of Baby, on either side of Sam’s thighs. "People don’t have nightmares like that over nothin’, Sam. You can’t lie to me."

Nightma-- oh God. If all colour hadn’t left him already he’d be as red as a ripe tomato. He has to turn this into a joke or Dean won’t let him off the hook until Sam’s spilling his guts, not with how overprotective he is.

"Listen, I know puberty. Hell, I'm still in it, too. This ain't it. Don't try and pin it on that 'cuz it ain't workin' on me. Dad might fall for it, but not me."

How does he make an excuse for 'I don't have nightmares, it's my sick self that wants you to fuck me raw and I need it so bad my skin crawls in anticipation'? Jesus, just thinking about it makes Sam sick of himself.

He looks at the darkness to the left. "It's not nightmares." 

Dean doesn't push further (and shit, that connotation), actually gives him ample time to gather his thoughts instead of demanding the truth asap. 

"It's-- they're--" his little sigh of frustration makes Dean get in his space again. "Technically they're good dreams."

"But?" Dean's whisper has little sparks of goodness bounce on his skin.

"But I don't want them. I don't wanna do that. Or. Or have that done to me." his breathing has gone off the rails, he's unconsciously hunched in on himself. He leaves the _because with every new dream I want it more_ out. "I like it in the dream but. When I wake up it's--" Sam shakes his head, shoulders almost up to his ears.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay." Dean has backed away and one glance aimed at his face confirms that his brother has taken another, more sinister meaning to his words. The space he's been given trumps any guilt. 

Dean looks like he's thirteen again, that night which was coincidentally an event of three life-altering events - his first hunt, his first kill and the first civilian he couldn't save. Eyes solemn if a little terrified, pale, but with his body corded tight with so much tension it's a wonder how he hasn't snapped yet.

"It's consensual in the dreams but it's _wrong_. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up. 'Cuz I like it, Dean, when I'm not supposed to like it and--"

"Hey, c'mon, it's okay, Sammy."

Sam only now feels the slide of tears on his cold cheeks, mashes his palms onto his face to scrub them away. That manages to worsen things. Once he's aware, he can't make them stop, has to resort to pushing the apples of his hands into his eye sockets while the ugly sobbing and hyperventilation take over. 

It's like he pressed a button - all of a sudden his body comes alive in the form of heavy tremors, lower lip doing a pathetic quiver, torso bending towards his knees. He can't stop it, as if possessed. Repressing all those feelings is finally coming to bite him in the ass.

At the same time, Dean keeps talking. Sam can't distinguish a single word from the other, brain unable to grasp the meaning with the overwhelming wave of pure emotion having drowned everything else. 

Suddenly he's picked up. Before he can protest, they're already in the house and Dean has them sit on the floor. Technically they're facing each other, but he's maneuvered Sam so he's wrapped around Dean while still having space to move freely. His head is pressed to Dean's chest, right in the middle, his ear over the strong heart. One muscular arm sits around his upper back while a gentle hand keeps stroking his hair slowly.

He knows he's digging his knees too sharply into Dean's lower back, having curled around his brother like a baby monkey. The same way he didn't want Dean's touch, now he can't imagine going through this without it. 

"Shhhh, it's okay, baby boy. We're gonna be alright. We just gotta get through this and it'll be all alright." Dean keeps muttering sweet nothings into his hair. The vibration of his chest is like a purr that, combined with the beat of his heart, soothes Sam like a spell. 

"That's it. That's it, Sammy."

Dean magics the jittery panic away. Only persistent shaking stays in his limbs; the tears have stopped. He can't put meaning to Dean's words again, however this time it's because of the exhaustion setting into his bones. His brother doesn't stop talking, tone so gentle and sweet, something Sam has heard in rare, cherished moments.

He's safe now. He's still a freak but he's trying to be better, Dean will help him get better. He always does.

***

Sam wakes up in increments, bundled up in warmth that has taken place of the dreadful terror that kept fucking with him. His limbs come back online one by one, each patiently waiting its turn to twitch and signal its regained alertness. 

He blames the cloud-like feeling for the lack of awareness. 

Dean’s scent hits him first, that intoxicating smell that does things to Sam nobody else has ever been able to. He's surrounded by it, makes his head swim despite having his eyes closed. A sturdy arm is wrapped around his waist, curves so that the forearm takes up almost the entire span of his back. A slow hand brushes through his hair, from the crown to the back of his neck, repeats the process over and over. A slight pressure, Dean's chin, keeps his head still. 

Sam finally notices how his palms are resting on a hard surface that moves - Dean's chest. One of his index fingers has the cord of the amulet under it. 

An innocent gift, now turned into a staple in his dreams. He wonders, do other thirteen-year-olds have the same filthy imagination that has unlocked such a terrifying sexual desire in them? Isn’t it too young? Shouldn’t he be blushing like mad over holding hands and stealing quick kisses with a girl? He remembers Dean refusing to sleep in the same bed with him at thirteen, no more showers together either. But did he too have this need deep inside of him at that age? 

Dean knows he's awake, is giving Sam an out in case he needs it: to let him pretend he's asleep until he falls under again. 

Sam digs his fingers into Dean's black t-shirt, burrowing closer, thus ruining the illusion of slumber. He's so drained that he can't apply any pressure. A tiny noise comes out of his mouth, a thought he can’t voice.

"I'm not gonna make you talk again, if you don't want to, okay? And I ain't tellin' Dad either." 

Dad knowing had barely crossed Sam's mind. Relief floods him either way. Dean is already ten steps ahead.

"This your first time havin' a panic attack?" 

Oh. That makes sense. He's read all about it, just never had the unpleasant experience of experiencing one himself. Until now.

"It's okay, it's not somethin' bad or somethin' you should blame yourself for. Or be ashamed of. I've had 'em too. Hell, I saw dad hidin' one, a few years back. But I guess being an adult, he knew how to control it better."

Dean, ever the mind reader, knowing exactly what to tell him to erase the unease.

"Sorry." Sam croaks out, voice too tiny.

"None of that shit, Sam. It wasn't your fault. _I'm_ sorry I pushed."

Sam shrugs in Dean's hold. Bless the tiredness for giving him a moment of peace - no outworldly want screaming at him to do something, to take, to let Dean touch every single inch of his body. It's dulled to the point of being an annoying itch. 

"Not your fault either."

“Just… I’m here. You know that, right? Anythin’ you need, I’m here.”

“I know.”

They don't talk after that. Dean doesn't get in the way of Sam's recharge and soon enough sleep knocks on the door once more.

xxx

After that night, things stabilize. Dean lets Sam have his space and Sam doesn't shut him out entirely. He's still quiet, shies away from prolonged skin contact or the ever present lust gets a boost in power. Dad comes back a day after, has a silent eye conversation with Dean while Sam pretends none of it is happening.

Their lives don't go back to normal. Sam still has his morning run alone, still has days where touch isn't permitted under any form or shape, still stays a lot more at school to evade his family. But now there's understanding from Dean, albeit among the unchanging worry and buried anger aimed at himself for being unable to help his little brother (ha, if only he knew he has to protect himself from Sam). 

Dad catches on quickly, only lets this new dynamic pass because of Sam's improving physical endurance and his lack of shying away from weapon training. He tries to put a foot down, relents when Dean stands against him every time. Dean, the obedient soldier. If he's butting heads with him, then John will let it be so long as it doesn't get in the way of hunting.

Sam learns to live with his desires while keeping them under lock. He doesn’t get in the way of Dean’s one night stands, makes no snide comments about them, or the stench of sex and booze on Dean when he’s back. He doesn’t treat the girls bad if Dean brings them to their current home. Hell, most of them are nice to him, even if it’s to get on Dean’s good side. It’s not their fault Sam is lusting after his own big brother. If anybody is in the wrong, that’s Sam with his perverse mind and greedy body. Oh, he wants to hate them but what’s the point when he’ll never be a match either way? 

Sam does what is expected of him as the little brother: to be moody only to a plausible degree that doesn’t get a cannon of questions aimed at him; to have screaming matches with Dad; to piss Dean off with his back hand comments; to ignore them both when he’s having a shit day. 

He manages. He never gets back to the same type of intimacy with Dean as before as expected. What used to be side to side touching, affectionate pats and easy space sharing is now a canyon of loneliness. Dean took the memo to heart, now Sam reaps the consequences. He can sometimes see it affecting Dean as well, hears that selfish little voice in his own head begging his big brother to come closer and envelop Sam in his essence. Dean never does because Sam never says a word to suggest he wants it.

At fourteen he can’t lie to himself anymore - it takes a toll on their relationship as a whole. Dean is still unsure around him, even a year after that night in Iowa. He’s careful, mindful of where his hands stray (not near Sam), has tuned himself to read Sam’s moods with a 99.9 percent accuracy. 

Some nights Sam will wake up from one of the everpresent wet dreams with nasty underwear and a soaked shirt, spine still arched off the bed, and Dean will be awake, staring with wide eyes and parted lips before he catches himself and smooths it all out. When that happens Sam will go beet red any time he catches Dean’s eye during the day, will pray he’s never heard Sam mumble out his name among the embarrassing sounds. Is he vocal? Dream Dean tends to have that effect on him, knows every button that revs up Sam like the Impala on an empty highway. 

He’s learned so much about himself in the past year and a half, not even through actual sex but through sexual fantasies and dreams alone. The startling clarity of them never ceases to amaze Sam, the same way it doesn’t fail to scare the shit out of him. He was supposed to grow out of it. Just a stupid fucking phase, not a desease that has ruined the only good relationship in his life. 

Dean has no idea just how much power he has over him. His voice, that particular rumble when he’s a lil’ tipsy or right before bed or in the mornings. The shit it does to Sam, the instant shiver it induces. That, along with Dean’s scent, is why he’s taken to wearing baggy clothing no matter the season. He can’t count the amount of times he’s gotten hard just by his brain supplying him with the idea of Dean whispering dirty innuendos into his ear like he’s a girl at the bar, even if he wanted to. Probably one of his most prominent kinks.

Ha. Having somebody’s voice as a kink, typical.

At fifteen the one thing that puzzles him is how eager he is to have Dean pin him down. Logically, Sam’s aware he’ll get taller than his brother when he’s only a head shorter than him currently. Shouldn’t he want it the other way around? That fantasy is only with Dean. He can’t look at anybody else or imagine a fake person he’d like to cage him with their body. It only invites a sudden spike of panic just thinking about it.

Maybe it’s about complete and unshakable trust. Not that it solves his problem, but having an explanation, even if of a vague character, is better than nothing. Food for thought.

Sam keeps hoping that if he does constant introspections, if he analyzes his behaviour in a clinical manner, he’ll eventually get to the conclusion that it’s just a circumstantial type of teenage freakiness. As in, he’s constantly with Dean, has the deepest bond with him than with any other living being. It’s bound to fuck them up in one way or another. For Sam it’s obvious - adoration turned into lust, formed due to no other outlet for his hormones; once his mind realised it can get maximum pleasure out of those scenarios, it flooded him with the sick want. 

Dean, on the other hand, has an extreme case of mama bear syndrome. Overprotective, turns hyper aggressive if Sam is in any way hurt, be it emotionally or physically, constantly dotes on Sam as if he has no head on his shoulders. Not ideal, however way better than incesuous inclinations.

xxx 

Many years later Sam will realize he’d made the conscious decision to leave way before he was in senior year. Even as a pubescent little shit he’d known he had to get away to save either himself or Dean. The bond needed to be severed if he wanted one of them to have a somewhat happy life. He had to at least give Dean a chance. There was a mostly dormant side of Sam he ignored like the plague, a resigned piece of him that had come to terms that nobody will fill in Dean’s place. And nobody will have Sam’s love the same way. 

Because it is love. He denies it, telling himself it’s the purest form of teenage lust, that kids like him still can’t differentiate love from what they allegedly thinks is love. 

It works only until the night he dreams of him and Dean living together in a place of their own - spacious, filled with secrets, mystery and adventures and it’s theirs. Even with the possibility of their own rooms they have one they share. They’re content, free to be affectionate, free to love as they please without the need to hide because all the important people in their life know and understand that their bond isn’t some regular familial thing founded in duty and promises. It’s a bond tied up in their souls. 

Sam bawls his eyes out as soon as he wakes up. He’s not breathing, more like hiccuping through the tears. He’s alone at one a.m. Dad’s on a hunt, Dean’s out fucking some girl. Small mercies. 

He can let out the sadness for once. It’s the first time that he’s experienced such profound sorrow for something he’s never had and never will. An anguish that guts him in the worst way possible, as if he’s lost the most precious thing in his life. He hasn’t cried this hard since he was eight and Dean almost died at the claws of a vengeful spirit despite not even being on the hunt with Dad.

His chest is tight, but not in the same way as a panic attack. He’s hunched, sitting on his bed, unable to even see. 

Sam plunges his hands beneath his sleeping shirt, digs his fingers into his lower abdomen, just below his belly button, and drags them over his skin horizontally, as deeply as he can plunge his nails. It takes him doing it four times before he’s able to regain his senses and draw in the first deep breath since he’d woken up.

Quivering fingers pull the shirt to reveal red delts of irritated skin. In some of the places he’d gone over the same scratches a few times and drawn blood to the surface. He puts the shirt down, presses his forehead to his clothed knees. 

The minutes pass, he can’t regain his calm.

"Sam?"

He doesn’t mean to flinch, does so anyway. With his mind so groggy he can’t even control the impulse to glance at Dean, despite the flood of salt that occurred on his face.

"Sammy?" Dean inches closer, is on his knees by the bed in a matter of seconds. "Talk to me." one of his hands twitches, as if he was going to extend it towards Sam. 

_"So, we made it after all, huh, Sammy?" a blinding smile, brimming with affection and adoration, crow’s feet a bit more pronounced than usual. "Now it’s time for just us, baby." Dean leans in, Sam mirrors him and even the kiss is sweet, savory with the taste of tangerines. "You and me." another fleeting kiss. "Alone time." a hint of teeth on his lower lip. "Fuckin’ finally."_

The flashback brings the heartache back. Sam can’t even begin to express what he needs, is stupefied and unable to do anything but look away before--

"No, no, no, don’t hide from me." this time Dean does touch him, warm palms cup Sam’s face despite the sticky tears. 

There’s barely any light, apart from the moon peeking from the window. Even so, Dean’s green eyes are so overwhelming up close. He hasn’t seen them like this in years. Worst thing is, Dean smells of booze. Only booze, and not even strong at that. No stench of sex or a random girl’s lipgloss and perfume. Just Dean and alcohol. Sam can’t bring himself to push him away.

"Sam?" Dean’s worry increases with each ticking second that Sam remains silent. Sam’s fucked up enough to soak it up like he’s the dying plant on the window sill and Dean is the fresh cup of water. 

"You know those dreams that," he starts, kind of loses his train of thought when Dean licks his lower lip. "That give you something so nice and pure? Something you know you can’t ever have? Yeah. It’s- that’s what-" he tries a few more times, is unable to finish the thought.

Dean brings Sam’s head close, tucks it under his chin. The position is awkward for both of them and still neither moves away. 

"Didn't wanna wake up. And when I did I was so sad, it’s like... " 

"Holdin’ the epitome of happiness in your hands only to watch it slip away between your fingers?" the rumble of Dean’s chest almost has his eyes roll in their sockets from the bliss of close contact. He catches the shiver on time, bites his tongue. 

"Yeah."

Dean holds him closer. For the first time in so long Sam lets himself be greedy, reaches out and pulls his brother into his bed. He doesn’t give Dean time to maneuver himself properly, slithers his own legs to the outer side of Dean’s, kicks at one knee to make his brother land between his open thighs, drop all his weight on Sam. 

Dean is cautious when he says, "Sam?" he almost gets to his elbows before Sam wraps his arms around his sturdy back, efficiently preventing him from doing so. 

The moment Sam takes a sharp breath, upon feeling the thick, hard length pressed against his tummy, Dean tries to quickly level himself back up again.

"I know it’s only your body reacting, just hormones." Sam tells him, staring at the crack in the ceiling so that he doesn’t get an instant boner himself. "It’s okay. Not your fault. Can we please just- just stay like this? For a bit?"

He’s mumbling by the end of it. Dean makes no third attempt to get away. Instead, he sinks one hand under Sam’s head, holds him lightly, the other he slides under Sam’s lower back to grip the opposite side of his waist. It takes a few more seconds, close to a minute, before he completely relaxes and makes them sink further into the mattress. The amulet digs into his skin through his sleep shirt and it’s better at grounding him than the angry dig of nails.

Dean is one heavy fucker. Sam finally gets why it was so enticing in his dreams: there’s only Dean surrounding him now, all he feels is his brother.

"Take all the time you need, baby boy." 

This time he does shiver. He grips the back of Dean’s plaid shirt tighter as Dean sighs into the nook of his neck. Even his horny body gets that it’s about the emotional comfort he’s needed for years. Still, he can’t fight off the way it fires up, feels his dick get half hard. Once he closes his eyes, however, a deep contentment sweeps him into a state of euphoria that has nothing to do with sexual release.

The weight pressing him down, the scent, the gentle hold, the breathing pattern - it’s all right. He’s safe. 

xxx

That night breaks some of his resolve. Once the beast was given a crumb it hasn’t stopped yowling for more. More proximity, more touches, more of Dean’s fingers in his hair, on his skin. More.

The other half of him, that lost boy that drowns in disgust and self-hatred, paints his flesh red. Once his fingernails aren’t enough he puts a knife in play. Only his lower abdomen, around his hipbones, and his upper thighs. He’s long since quit track, hasn’t taken up any other sport. Dad’s drills are more than enough exercise. When the urge to pull Dean into a kiss threatens to win over reason he’ll drag his jeans over the fresh cuts and the pain will bring him back from the edge.

He just has to hold up until graduation. A little more and he has an excuse to leave and free Dean of his chains. Now that he has a deadline it makes him appreciate their relationship further. He’s not fully on board with excessive amount of touching, but brings their SamandDean language back to life - pats on the shoulder for attention, thump on the back after a particularly close call, playful kicking when it’s just them, prank wars, half-hearted slap fights in the Impala when they steal each other’s shit or when Dean decides it’s a day to blow up Sam’s head with heavy metal. They’re almost back to normal.

On the outside at least.

Sam still has his issues that prevent him from fully relaxing. Dean is no idiot, he sees right through him, keeps his tongue behind his teeth only because Sam has his head out of his shell.

So, naturally, a big fuck up has to occur to erase all the progress.

Sam should have been more cautious, but it was an ideal time to blow off some steam. Dad on a big hunt with uncle Bobby, Dean working a late shift in the garage on a Friday, bound to storm a bar for a quick fix himself. And for fuck’s sake, Sam’s a full blooded teenager. He’s seventeen and the only action he’s seen is his own hands, along with the dildo he’s managed to keep hidden for close to half a year by some miracle. He has his needs.

So sue him for being in the mood, thinking he’s safe to fuck himself two times in a row, try for a third time, in one hour. 

His abdomen is covered in drying come, toy snug inside of him, as deep as he can push it. His back sticks to the sheets, the air in the room clammy despite the disgusting cold weather in Wyoming. He’s in that blissed out state where the world is blurry, muscles lax, a little quivery but eager for a third round and if he doesn’t concentrate he’ll fall asleep fast. 

With his eyes shut he pulls the dildo out slowly, so that only the tip is barely holding him open, slams it back inside. A breathy moan, transforming into a quiet whine at the end. Sam throws his head back, back corded into a tight arch, leg muscles jumping, heels slipping on the sheets. He’s so close already. Well, pent up want tends to do that to him.

He wonders if Dean is a biter. That oral fixation of his drives Sam crazy on the best of days, makes multiple tantalizing scenarios erupt in his already crammed head. Where would he sink his teeth? Throat, for sure. Maybe, in an impossible situation where he wants Sam, he’ll have him on his front, paint Sam’s back in red and purple. Ass, thighs and nape too. Leave bruises from his hands all over, a map of all the ways he’s found work to reduce Sam to an oversensitized wreck that begs him to finally fucking fuck him.

Just the prosperity of it happening has Sam on the edge, makes little shivers gather in his lower back in anticipation for the grand finale. 

He’s heard Dean moan before, when he’d stumbled in early after school a few times, but those were too quiet. More like encouragement or teasing, not the full deal of losing yourself in the feeling, so horny that you can’t put a stop to any noise. It’s probably better that he has no idea how his brother sounds when he’s really lost his filter. Lots of dirty talking for sure, he’s caught snippets, kind of wishes he hadn’t. Dean likes teasing Sam for being so vanilla, so he’s bound to be kinky, right? Latex, cuffs, BDSM type of kinky or the harcore style of shit people rarely share with others? 

So many possibilities, such a vast array of scenarios that sometimes get too much for Sam’s inquisitive mind. 

How big is he? Dean’s not small for sure but they haven’t seen each other in that state of undress in years. He could have stayed the same. Or, he could have gotten even thicker than the last time Sam had a glimpse. Suddenly the dildo isn’t big enough. He wants that initial stretch of too much, right before his muscles get used to the intrusion, so that he feels every fake vein and his insides are hyper sensitive to any movement.

Sam grinds it, loses grip of it a few times from the lube. Not enough.

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Fuck.” 

Maybe if he does it slowly he’ll get a better effect. Or if he wipes the lube off it so it’s a harder fit with more friction. Then again, he wants to be able to sit normally or he’ll get caught and teased until he’s dead. Slow it is. 

Just as his plan starts working, the controlled, languid glide of in and out with sharp grinding lands him in that twitching stage in seconds, he hears a crash.

His head snaps towards the now open door to their room. Dean, previously holding the bottle of Jack that startled the hell out of Sam when it fell to the floor, stands as still as stone in the doorway. Wide eyes, shock unconcealed and as clear as day. Sam himself is frozen with the dildo poised for a deep thrust, sweaty all over. It’s only poor impulse control that makes him shove the toy inside him, catches Dean’s eyes going wider with his chest high after the suddenly indrawn breath, before Sam pulls the covers over himself.

“ _What the fuck_ , Dean?” his screech mobilizes his brother out of his gargoyle imitation. He doesn’t mean for it to be so acidic but come the fuck on. 

He’s panicking. Were the cuts visible? He’d made sure it’s too dim for anything to be seen, with no light in the room itself. Only now that Dean has the door wide open the lamp in the corridor has illuminated him. Dean has a view only from the side, not the front. There’s hope that he was too taken aback by seeing Sam fucking himself with a dildo to pay attention to anything else.

Dean takes a step, then another, doesn’t stop until he’s reached Sam’s bed. If he had laser eyes he would have incinerated the cover already. The unwavering concentration of his gaze gives the answer Sam dreads - he saw them.

Sam grips the sheets tighter, doesn’t relent when Dean makes to haul them down. If the situation was different it would be akin to a tug war when one of them refuses to get up in the morning. 

“Get out.” Sam says, pulls too hard with his entire body. The toy, having fallen halfway out of him, gets pushed back inside to the root. He reacts with a gasp, can stop the bow of his back only halfway. Not enough to cover it up.

Dean lets go of the cover as if it’s a snake out to bite him, conflicted. 

“Get out, Dean.” the sting of upcoming tears alerts Sam that more humiliation is on the way. 

It’s the broken whisper of, “Who the fuck did that to you, Sammy?” that makes all bravado abandon ship. The fear induced crack in Dean’s voice has Sam’s eyes water further. Burning fury is quick to throttle everything else, Dean snarls: “Who, Sam?”

Sam delves his elbow into Dean’s sternum, managing to push him back. “I said, _get out_!” he’s screaming like a lunatic, face probably ugly and contorted, with bitter tears already slipping out of his eyes. “Get the fuck out, _NOW_! Get. Out!”

Dean finally scrambles out of the room, the lost face back. Sam only ever speaks that way to Dad, when a particular verbal fight gets too vile and stabby. 

Sam instantly pulls the toy out of him when the door clicks shut, wraps it in his t-shirt discarded between him and the wall, then crams it into the duffle bag under the bed as best as he can from his position. His dick has flagged completely by now either way. He curls into himself, away from the door, blanket covering him from feet to chin. By now it’s a reflex, hands finding the ruined skin under his belly button, fingers digging and pulling outwards towards his hip bones. A few of the fresh cuts open up again, giving him that grounding sting that’s similar to pouring alcohol on a deep slash wound.

It’s not enough. He needs something sharper.

So focused on bringing his relief, he doesn’t notice Dean re-entering the room. 

“No.” it’s a strong, dangerous rumble at his back. “Sam, no.”

Sam wraps his arms around himself, doesn’t let Dean turn him on his back. Surprise, surprise, Dean is stronger than him. Calloused palms pin his shoulders to the bed. Sam tries to lurch away, back towards the wall, unsuccessfully. His legs kick out on their own accord, landing a solid bruise to Dean’s side. Not that it does anything, he doesn’t even flinch away on impact.

Before Sam realises what his brother is trying to do, he’s in a seated position, seized in a steel embrace with his arms trapped between their torsos in the form of an ‘X’ like he’s some dead pharaoh. A firm hand presses his head over a solid chest.

“It’s okay. Hey, shhh, it’s okay.” 

He’s held in almost the exact same pose as during the notable panic attack four years ago, in Iowa. 

“Shhhh.” Dean rocks them left and right from where he’s seated on the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, Sammy.”

It’s not until something lands on Sam’s cheek that he quits fighting. It slides to the corner of his mouth as he’s unable to wipe it away. A teardrop, not his own. Only now does he notice how Dean’s broad shoulders are hunched forward, forehead and nose rested on the top of Sam’s head, how they’re breathing equally heavy.

“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry, Sammy.” the litany of words carry on in meek murmurs. More tears mingle in with his own. 

After what might be ten or fourty minutes Dean is reduced to only one word, a broken record of ‘Sammy’ in varying degrees of pain. 

Dean’s hands are a hot pressure on his skin, like the concentrated heat of the summer sun. His cuts sting from the newly inflicted irritation of his nails, his sweat and his come. At least there’s some space between them, still, so that Dean’s clothes don’t get dirty. Funny how his mind wanders to such stupid shit during something earth shattering. 

Dean slowly loosens his grip on him, degree by degree, waiting to see if Sam will start trashing again. When nothing happens he inches away, just enough to hold Sam’s face between his palms and push their foreheads together. Sam’s arms drop to his lap, stunned into silence. 

He’d expected more growled out threats. 

“Just tell me what to do, ‘cuz I have no fuckin’ clue.” Dean’s breath ghosts over his lips, so close. He’s had rum and coke. Nobody else has soiled his scent. “You’ve been slippin’ away from me for years and I was too scared of losin’ you completely to push for answers. Talkin’ about it is your domain, man, I’m outta my depth here.” 

Sam repeats what he said to him back then, “I told you I’m fucked up, Dean.”

“Why would you even do that to yourself?” Dean’s voice is a tormented thing, verging on hysterical. 

He leans back to look him in the eye, thumbs swipe back some of the remaining moisture of the tears from Sam’s cheeks. Dean’s eyelashes are clumped together, the green of his irises pronounced even in the semi-darkness. Still, all Sam can think about is how beautiful and stunning his brother is, can’t restart his brain from the blinding assault of such a rare mix of grace and power.

What slips out of his mouth is, “I can’t do this anymore.”

And it’s not a lie. The meaning, though, can suggest something else entirely. Dean flinches as if struck with a metal boot, further pales. His head gives a barely detectable shake, lips forming a silent ‘no’ while one of his shaky palms lets go of Sam’s cheek to push his bangs up, out of his eyes, travels further to the crown of his head, finally stops at his nape. He actually starts shivering, frantic eyes roaming over Sam’s face like he’s gonna drop dead any second now. 

Sam clasps his hands around Dean’s wrists, bangs falling back into his eyes. “I’m not gonna kill myself. I just can’t take this life.”

Dean’s chin jerks, eyebrows draw together as he glances pointedly at Sam’s stinging hips.

“That’s my fucked up way to cope with my fucked up self.” 

Sam fights the urge to cover himself fully, even if it’s only his torso and arms that are exposed.

“It’s gotta stop.”

Sam looks away.

The tension spikes once more. “Sam.” it’s a low rumble, a warning that holds no room for negation, one Dean has learned from Dad. “This ain’t gonna carry on.”

When Sam doesn’t speak, Dean slowly lowers him back to the bed, reaches for the blanket at an even slower pace. Sam resolutely glares at the ceiling. Only a small portion of his lower belly is revealed before Dean covers him again.

“Fuck.” he sighs, takes off his red plaid shirt to drop it on top of Sam. “Put it on, I’m gonna go get a wash cloth or somethin’.”

Which means he’ll drag the big emergency box and nanny him until he’s satisfied and Sam’s wounds are bandaged. 

“I’m dirty.”

“What, like I haven’t gotten spunk on my clothes before. Just put it on.” and he marches out.

Sam sits up, tugs the shirt on only because the scent is an instant comfort, plus it’s big on him. Fine, it might also be for a personal, perverse benefit of living one of his more innocent fantasies. He even does the buttons, stops at the last one as he catches Dean standing in the doorway with his peripheral vision, wraps his arms around his middle again. 

Dean hands him a damp cloth to take care of his dried come, then another one, bigger, to cover himself. “You ain’t got nothin’ I ain’t seen before but I know your princess self is gonna fuss otherwise.” the joke is weak, but appreciated. 

Once Sam is on his back for the umpteenth time that night, Dean gets to work. There’s no point in telling him everything gets disinfected at least two times a day, he’s not a moron that has no recollection of infections that start from a tiny cut, thank you very much. Dean exposes one small patch of his skin at a time, doesn’t linger or prod in uncomfortable places. Methodical, clinical. Just another reminder of how sick Sam is for being bitter over it. 

Sam feels eyes on him, doesn’t let himself look back. He doesn’t know how to handle this situation. When there’s no fight and Dean is so composed after showing such profound vulnerability minutes ago. There’s only one thing he can think of.

“I applied for Stanford.”

Momentarily, all motion from his brother ceases. Sam startles at the touch to the inside of his wrist, glances down.

There’s a moment of unbearable silence before, quietly, “You’re leaving me?” 

Me. Not ‘us’. Not him and Dad. He thinks Sam’s leaving _Dean_.

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Nothing, that’s what. Not unless he wants to confess his buried incestuous love. Oh, no, no, he’s too much of a selfish coward to go down that road.

Dean waits, swallows loudly, possibly expecting Sam to say it was a joke. His face twists, mouth twitching, tilting his head to one side in equal parts hope and disbelief. His jaw clenches, muscles pronounced, green eyes going hollow. Soon enough Dean lowers his gaze and continues patching Sam up without a word. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is awesome and thank you for reading!


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